


Stars

by moz17



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: American Sign Language, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 06:14:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30017391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moz17/pseuds/moz17
Summary: "Not being able to see Grady's face made this difficult for Wes,  which was only compounded by Grady's seeming inability to mobilise his hands to sign to him. In spite of this, Wes knew what was happening to his partner: they had been through this on many occasions over the years together."I couldn't stop looking at Salometic's wonderful collection of Wrenchers' artworks and I needed to write something based on one the images, "But Remember That Princess Who Lived on the Hill" and I hope I can do some justice to the gorgeous, intimate piece.
Relationships: Mr. Numbers/Mr. Wrench (Fargo)
Kudos: 9





	Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Collections of artworks I did for Wrenchers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27294247) by [Salometic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salometic/pseuds/Salometic). 



Wesley was pulled from a deep slumber by a jagged, repeated shaking pressure against him. In the darkness of their bedroom, still half-asleep he strained to orient himself. His forearm was held in a tight grip, painful, restrictive. Instinctively, he knew that he was not in danger, that he didn't need to brace himself to fight, to defend his partner, or get them both to safety by fleeing. He fumbled awkwardly with his free hand for the switch on their bedside lamp, eventually managing to snap it on, suffusing the room with a dull glow, a limited yellow circle surrounding them and their bed, the darkness outside of it highlighted even further. He turned to his partner, making his movements slow and deliberate; it was Grady who had his arm encircled in his grasp, his fingernails digging into his skin, irregularly tightening his hold even further, like a spasm, the beacon from a lighthouse flashing out into the night, asking for help, or if not help then just asking for something, to have something respond or be reflected back to him. His grip was painful, the pinpricks of sharp edges pressing into his flesh, but it wasn't that bad and Wes could manage it without instinctively attempting to escape this source of discomfort. Often Wesley was unable to assist his partner in any lasting sense, leaving him with a heavy sensation in the pit of his stomach, as if he had swallowed a stone. He attempted to assess the situation; Grady lay on the bed, his body shaking, his face hidden from his partner, pressed into the pillow, his thick hair in disarray, helping to cover his features, plastered down in sweat-darkened clumps, bearing no resemblance to the sleek and combed-back locks he typically maintained. Wesley had always loved how he was the only one to see Grady's hair in its natural, untamed state, the image of his lover's bleary expression in the early morning, his hair wild, curling in every direction, refusing to do what it was told or in the direct aftermath of sex, the state of his hair undeniable evidence of the course of their lovemaking. Wesley liked to indulge himself in those moments by taking hold of these individual waves and letting them run through his fingertips, enjoying the sensation.

Wes had propped himself up on his elbow and he took his free hand and placed it lightly against Grady's neck, who jerked violently, and then realising who it was, accepted the touch. Not being able to see Grady's face made this difficult for Wes, which was only compounded by Grady's seeming inability to mobilise his hands to sign to him. In spite of this, Wes knew what was happening to his partner: they had been through this on many occasions over the years together. It was always tough to get Grady to discuss these panic attacks after the fact, irrespective of how much Wes coaxed him or how carefully he approached the subject. He wouldn't have pressed such a subject usually – there were many things in their life together that remained unacknowledged. But this was too urgent, it happened repeatedly, and Wes needed to at least have some idea about what was going on inside his partner's mind at these moments, what it felt like to be inside his body. He had managed to drag some clipped sentences out of him over an extended period of time, each hard-won bit of information expressed leaving Grady enraged and humiliated by his perceived malfunctioning. Conflicting drives pulled at him during these attacks, on one hand, he wanted to hide his face from his partner, and on the other, he reached out towards him.

Wes watched as Grady's chest rose and fell sharply, too quickly, and he felt his body shaking under his hand. He would not be able to attempt to count with him as he sometimes did, holding up and folding down his fingers, moving his palm to face outward then inward, combining these symbols to go through the numbers one to ten with him, over and over, making his signs soft, slow, swaying like a pendulum on a clock. On this occasion, with his face hidden from him, Wesley would not be able to implement this, and he did not want to force his lover to show himself if he currently did not want or feel able to. He considered Grady's defensive position and making an instant decision, removed his hand from the back of his neck and lay down fully once more beside his partner, adjusting himself until he could slide his left arm around Grady, gathering his legs into his grip, the action bringing his knees up to his hip, leaving his hand securely supporting the backs of his thighs. He wedged his other arm around Grady's shoulders, holding him close but also in a way that let him feel he wasn't trapped. In such a close embrace, Grady's out of control breathing was even more apparent to Wes, and he hoped his own still frame would somehow have a good effect on him.

These intimate touches always had a quality of a photograph or rather a negative overlaying with the photo – each embrace reminded Wes of other similar embraces with Grady, but also reminded him of their different contexts and causes, how he could caress his partner's thighs like this in order to ground him during a panic attack when he had also done so in other situations. He had grasped the solid flesh of his thighs during sex, urging Grady to go harder, to go deeper into him, wanting to meld himself further with his body, to feel even more sharply how he filled him as he thrust into him. Many years ago, back in their even wilder younger days, he had sometimes had to physically carry Grady home, his partner having become hopelessly intoxicated to the point of near incapacity, and so, with some ineffectual protest on his part, Wes would scoop him up into his arms, securely holding onto his shoulders with one arm and his legs with his other, feeling his thighs through his trouser material, listening as his partner carried out a slurred monologue or dialogue, or mumbled abuse at various imagined or real people.

When they were teenagers, Grady had hated their height difference. Wes had shot up fairly early, going through what seemed an unending growth spurt. Because of this, Grady had fully expected something similar would happen to him in due course; however, it never quite came. He did catch up a little bit to his partner but never fully. However, as they had grown older, Grady seemed to take some reassurance and even comfort in Wesley's bigger form, and so that was what he attempted to deploy to its greatest effectiveness now, enfolding him in his arms, bending his larger frame around him, attempting to impart some sense of [safe] to him.

Grady pressed his face against Wes's shoulder, and shot out his hand, burying his fingers deep in his hair, his breathing still erratic but not quite as bad as it had been a minute ago: the attack had hopefully peaked, and Wes remained still, waiting to ride out the last of it with him, to help him come down from this.

He knew what Grady was likely experiencing currently, pieced together from their aborted conversations about these attacks. He felt like he couldn't breathe, his panic at this perceived choking sensation only making the attack stronger, a spiralling sensation of complete helplessness, utter lack of control. He was wildly nauseous too, and he hated that, hated it so much, Wes was aware. He wasn't a particularly good patient or well-equipped to deal with any onset of illness at the best of times, but the nausea which accompanied his panic attacks was somehow one of the worst parts for him, the queasy roiling of his stomach compounding his dizziness and weakness.

[But, what do you think about during an attack?] Wes had signed to him on one occasion.

They had been in their car, parked, waiting, one of those days where their job entailed a great deal of waiting around, observing, waiting for a phone call. It was not that Grady had been in a receptive mood for such a discussion, he never really was, but he had at the very least felt himself able for it. During such moments, Wes wondered how having two languages to choose from impacted his partner – he could choose to sign or to speak. Wes would have been able to follow him and read his lips if for some reason speaking aloud somehow served him better. It did not appear to – perhaps because over the years, speaking had become a business language, a functional language, to communicate necessities and move through life. Wes had wondered if Grady experienced a sense of distance to himself when he used sign language, seeing as it wasn't his first language but that again did not seem to be the case. Sign language for Wes was lifeblood, it was just made sense, it just worked, it was natural. In a way, it had become something not dissimilar for Grady too, it was the language of privacy, of intimacy, it was fully theirs.

Grady took his hands and moved them over and back again, like fish turning up their bellies to the sky when they expired. [I think I'm going to die.]

[Because you can't breathe?]

He took his right hand, curving his thumb and pointer finger before bringing them to his throat. [Yes. But also, no. It's a massive threat right there, I don't know what it is, but it's just there, and it means my death is about to happen, I can't get away from it in time or do anything against it.]

Wes saw how Grady hesitated, his gestures stuttering, half-formed before being abandoned. He waited. Eventually, he gathered himself enough to sign:

[You'll think this is insane but I also panic that I'm not real.] He touched his pointer finger to his lips and brought it forward slightly.

Wes had smiled at him. [I don't think that's insane. Seems pretty legitimate to me. It just might not be the best time to be having that thought.]

He had been rewarded for this with a broad smile, a genuine one, an occurrence which always made Wes feel as if he had won some massive prize.

Wes continued to hold his partner, the final aftershocks from his panic attack ebbing away, his breath hard and hot against his neck. Shakily, Grady lifted his head, sliding his hand to grip his shoulder instead of his hair. Wes made no move to sign anything to Grady, instead searching his face. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He shifted and after a moment was able to create enough space between himself and Wes in order to sign.

[It's over.] He held his right hand upright and his left hand flat, palm up, sliding his right hand over the back of the other. Another time Wes would remind Grady of the sign he had used, how it did not only mean [over] in the sense of [finished] [done] [completed] but also meant [across] and he found this idea of [over]/[across] appealed to him, another way to understand the panic attacks he experienced – he had got [across], as if he had gone from one side to another, wading through deep waters before reaching safety.  
Once he managed that, he dropped his hands, and sank back into the pillows again, Wesley continuing to hold onto his legs, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin and hair at the back of his thighs.

Grady folded down his thumb and pinkie, holding the remaining fingers upright, and tapped his hand against his lips. Wesley nodded and carefully disentangled himself from his partner in order to get him water. He was only gone a brief moment and yet when he returned, he recognised that Grady was already experiencing a return of anxiety, his body overly still, calculated to not betray any unease, only his fingers grasping and releasing on the bed sheets indicating his unsettled state. Wes settled in bed beside him again, offering him the tumbler of water which Grady fell upon.

As they had grown older, Grady had seemed to learn how to better accept Wesley's presence in the aftermath of his panic attacks. When they had been younger, and particularly as teenagers, the first few times these attacks had happened, both of them completely ignorant and unprepared for how to deal with them and even what they were, Grady, though needing his partner whilst in the grip of the attack, had been unable to respond to him after it had passed. Their life together was an odd contradiction in that sense, they seemed to have been made both harder and yet also softer by their journey through the world they lived in.

Grady sat up, arising slowly, his eyes half-focused on his partner. Wes knew he would want to clean himself up, that he would not be able to bear the remnants of the panic attacks on his skin. The sky remained dark outside, the light of day still some way off. Grady raised his right hand to the side of his head, spread his fingers out before curling them in again, repeating the gesture. Wes signed [OK] and waited for Grady to move. There was a pause.

[Do you want to join me?]

Wes made a large circle in the air with his index finger, repeating the movement several times before rising from their bed to follow Grady into the shower. The hot water beat down on them and Wes watched as Grady scrubbed methodically at his limbs, under his arms, massaging shampoo into his scalp. Wes always enjoyed observing Grady as he prepared and groomed himself for the day, watching the ritual he went through of attending to his hair and beard, the various brushes and oils applied, systematically, unvarying, the smells from these unguents building up the layers which composed Grady's scent.

He watched now as the water poured over his body, running over his tattoos and through the dark hair on his chest and legs. In some ways, this body, strong and yet also soft, scarred and inked, had so little to do with the skinny young boy Grady had once been, and yet, Wes could still conjure up the imagine of that kid in an instant if he wanted to. He had an odd affection for that young boy still, who had been sharp and somewhat self-conscious, seeking to act and present himself in a certain way.

They emerged from the shower and after drying off, Wes placed himself in front of Grady, knowing he needed to sign what he was about to now, while he would still be somewhat receptive to it. Wesley took his fist and moved it from his hip to his chest in a straight line. He saw Grady scoffing at him but before turning away he also caught the small change in the expression in his eyes, belying the brusque rejection of Wes's claim. He was proud of him in those moments, that was the truth, or rather the truth of his feelings and reactions, he was proud every time Grady got through another attack. The first time he had signed that to Grady after a panic attack, many years ago, he had not been met with such indulgence and pretended disbelief, he had instead reacted as if Wes was mocking him or trying to trick him somehow, and they had almost come to blows.

[Why would you tell me that? Why?]

Wes's hands had fallen still, and he remembered wanting, but being unable, to form and shape them to tell Grady he just wanted to be able to give him something, and in this situation he was unable, what could he give him to help or make it easier or make these attacks stop and go away? Very, very little. All he could give him were his signs and himself.  
Wes re-entered their bedroom and found Grady in the process of quickly getting dressed, pulling on some dark, loose clothing which he would only wear indoors. However, on this occasion, Grady turned to him, signing:

[Can we go for a drive?]

[Sure.] Wes shrugged. He knew Grady still hated asking for things that he worried appeared unreasonable, even if it was something he would benefit or derive comfort from. Wes never found his requests to be unreasonable and sometimes he wondered if Grady asked him these things in order to receive external confirmation that they were fine to want or need.

After bundling up with sufficient layers, they exited their apartment, moving towards their car. The sky was black, spread with whitely shining stars, the streets were empty, and everything was covered with thick drifts of undisturbed snow, its bright crystals reflecting its kin in the night sky.  
They did not drive very far, just enough to enter the forest, and to find a clearing where they could park the car.

[I like driving with you like this.] Wesley signed to him once Grady had killed the engine.

[How so?]

[When we don't have to go somewhere, we don't have a destination, it's not a job. We're just driving because.]

They stood, leaning against the car, Grady looking up at the stars, Wes's gaze trained on his partner's profile, the white wisps of his warm breath ghosting into the air and disappearing above him.

[This helps.] Grady turned to him, forming these words, left palm flat and up, his right hand curled into a fist, thumb held upright sitting on top of it. [You help.]

Wes half-smiled. [I try.]

[I know the panic attacks will never go away, not completely. There might be fewer of them but that's all.]

[Why?]

[Because.] Grady's mouth curled in a sardonic flick before falling into a straight line once more. [Because they're necessary.]

[For what?]

[For survival.] He signed as if this should've been self-evident. [These panic attacks, okay, they might seem irrational but really, they're just an over-exaggeration of something necessary to survival. It's not as if I'm being paranoid, Wesley, there are dangers for me, for you, constantly, our lives are threatened from day to day, I have to be vigilant, we rely on that. And so, if the price for that is that this happens every so often then it's worth paying. Maybe it's good that I get reminded on a regular basis what it's like to fear for your fucking life and imminent demise.]

Wes could have signed that the panic attacks had started before they had begun working for their employer but he knew this was the wrong tack to take. Rather he took his left hand and held it upright and took his first two fingers and in a dancing move bounced them twice against his palm.

[You don't have to try find meaning in everything that happens.]

[Yes, I do.]

They didn't move from their positions but Grady reached out his fingers to Wes who met him instantly entwining their hands together.

As the night sky began to show the first traces of early morning light, they get back into the car, and drove back the way they had come.


End file.
